Darkest Before Dawn
by petrarchan1008
Summary: A short drabble using Chuck’s POV of how a certain brown-eyed brunette despot has run circles in his head and as a consequence has changed him, waking to find that he is alternating between who he is and who he though he was.


Darkest Before Dawn

Summary: Chuck Bass develops a new nocturnal habit as he contemplates his life with Blair. A short drabble using Chuck's POV of how a certain brown-eyed brunette despot has run circles in his head and as a consequence has changed him, waking to find that he is alternating between who he is and who he though he was.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gossip Girl.

Author's Note: This is not beta-ed. I have not written anything in such a long time but I was getting a migraine from keeping all these ideas in my head, I needed to put one down to create more space for normal life.

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CHUCK'S POV

Ever since I was young, the night holds such an affinity to me. There's something about its silence and darkness that strangely seemed safe, even benevolent. Enthralling me and pulling me in as I watch the city's heartbeat slow down under its mantle, dimming even the lights over Manhattan that never seem to die or flicker. The night was my refuge. It was the closest that I have come to feeling at peace about why I'm even here on this earth and why my mother wasn't. Her life for mine. It was not meant to be – a cruel joke or a surprising twist of Fate's lottery that my father has never failed to remind me. I suppose that I should loathe the night because nothing much happens in it and thoughts too scared by day, unbidden come crawling out. I don't. It's the day that I hate. Or should I say used to hate because the day is when everyone that finds it worthwhile to wake up to another day go live their lives of which I am not a party to.

I may have been 4 or 5 years old when my nanny has given up trying to make me go to sleep at a reasonable time as is the normal practice for when children my age get tucked in and dream of whatever it is that children dream of. I for one don't remember having any dreams. I close my eyes and the darkness slipping underneath my lids feel more terrifying than the darkness with my eyes open. Being awake, I have forged a gentle camaraderie with the night. So I have started to keep myself awake for however long I could possibly do so and only condescend to let sleep stake its claim when the sun starts to peek out of the comforting ebony cloak. It is during the dawn that I avert my eyes from another day that shows in almost excruciating detail everything about myself that I loathe to know. But that was before her. I think my life will only be defined by two periods – before Blair and after Blair. Actually, in fact there may only be one. It has always been her and the two periods could be nothing more than the periods of before I could dream and after I could dream of a life with her in it.

Nowadays, the night does not hold the same appeal as it once did and like a shifting of the earth my world shook and the dawn is my new friend. Blair was a creature of the day and if that is where she would be, I would follow her wherever she went. I have come to like waking up just as the sun kisses the sky to convince myself that she is not just an illusion that would evaporate and vanish like a wisp of gossamer thread. I find myself conceding grudgingly that the day has its merits – it would lay everything bare and shed light on reality sans the lies that the night sometimes weaves. All of a sudden every silly love song is about her and it is true what Michael Stipe sings about. Just the thought that she is lying there in my arms, I needed to convince myself that she would not disappear. So just at dawn, I wake up and watch her sleep, counting her eyelashes and with every breath whisper I love her. Staggering under the thought that this exquisite and lovely better half of me is actually there of her own choosing and I feel inadequate for not having the right words at the right time to say what I feel. God, I envy Stipe for thinking of the words before I did. She chose me and to this day, I don't know what I've done to deserve it.

Most days, the fluttering in my chest feels exultant and I am overcome by a warmth that explodes inside me – it's as if the sun has risen in my being where my heart was supposed to be and it takes all of my will power not to wake her and ask her if she's real. She hates having her beauty sleep broken and not being perfect, I am not blind to her faults, she would pout and be in a glorious bad mood for the rest of the day. But if I have to be miserable in order to be this happy, then I would sign up for it again and again. I dare not categorize how I feel nor say it out loud too much, afraid that she will get snatched away from me again. And so I envy with a passion anyone who courageously say what they feel and sometimes act how they feel. Although, there are limits that must never be crossed. I think Tom Cruise is a walking hyperbole – a couch-jumping, fist-pumping fool. But I know how he feels and there are days when I find it hard to stop following his antics and not raise my voice to joyous yawps from the rooftop of the Palace. A feat that my father, who seems incapable of any emotion other than deep despise would frown upon. He and I are Bass men after all and Bass men don't do happy or if we do, we pretend it did not happen even if it means that we could possibly keel over from all the exuberant fuzzy feelings that we should never submit to.

Then there are days when I feel like I'm drowning – like being given a responsibility I have no hope of fulfilling and as I lie there with her beside me , I am seized by a paralyzing wave of despair, anger and incredible sadness that I cannot begin to imagine to ride out. It is during those days when I wish that I was back to not having dreams because then I would not have known what I was missing. But Blair would scoot over closer and lay her head on my chest – it's as if even in her sleep she was trying to keep her promise to stand by me as I plumb the fathoms of my darkest thoughts. And as she makes those little sounds in her sleep, smiling contentedly as she mumbles about Harold, Eleanor, Cyrus and myself. I am once again brought out of the abyss and staring up blinking at the fresh rose and pale yellow hues of a sky at dawn.

It's not as if I have changed that much, I have merely stopped detesting the day and have grown to almost liking it. I have never shared this with her though and I like the fact that it is a secret between me and Whoever it is that makes dawns such breath-takingly full of hope. One day, may be I'd wake her and we would watch the sun rise together but for now I put my arms around her and kiss the top of her head, my eyes unseeing as I almost shed a few tears for the simple joy that I have been chosen and not just as a default. So I let her sleep because after all Bass men don't do sentimental – unless unseen.


End file.
